The first biker stopped as he passed, leaned down just enough to invade the man’s space, and without a word pressed his lit cigarette into the center of the pie. The filling sizzled, ash scattered across the crust. He chuckled and walked on.
The old man didn’t flinch.
The second biker swirled the glass of milk, spat into it, and set it back down, grinning as if he’d told the world’s funniest joke.
Still, the old man said nothing.
The third biker grabbed the plate, flipped it onto the floor, and laughed as porcelain shattered and pie splattered across the tiles. Then he strutted to the counter to join the others, their laughter echoing.
The room fell silent.
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